


Restless

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Innuendoes, John is a Good Friend, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oblivious Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock is posh, Teaching, all those innuendoes have to lead to something more, until they're not just friends anymore, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 19:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: Sherlock is wired, John comes up with an idea to keep his mind occupied so it doesn't stay stuck on the launchpad.





	1. Distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laruna8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laruna8/gifts).

> To Laruna8, to whom I kept sharing my obsession throughout my first year of violin lessons.  
And of course, I HAD to turn this into a fic.
> 
> The whole story is written, I have someone looking at it for pointers (12/11/19).  
If anyone reads something which needs to be corrected, feel free to let me know!
> 
> As always, kudos and comments give me life and are fuel for words :D

‘Sherlock.’

‘Hm?’

‘Teach me how to play the violin,’ John asked one afternoon. Sherlock turned around to face him, an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

‘Why?’

‘No cases, boredom… You’re only going to get more restless,’ he shrugged.

‘Yes, thank you. I’m aware,’ he spat.

‘I figure you’ll be less so if you’ve got something to focus on.’

‘Mh. What makes you think that – ‘

‘You’ll be any good at teaching?’ John completed, unfazed by the question.

‘Precisely.’

‘You know more than your fair share about – well, pretty much anything. You’re focussed on _details_ that no one else considers important. You’ll be able to tell me what I’m doing wrong, and how to correct it.’

Sherlock didn’t reply, silenced by John’s flawless logic.

‘And if you’re worried about being too… Of course you wouldn’t. But you know there’s no need to sugar-coat anything with me,’ he continued. ‘That’s something you’d most definitely have to do with any other human being – with some more than with others – but you’re safe with me,’ he added. ‘If you were worried.

‘I wasn’t worried.’

‘Good. Well. Thoughts?’ he asked, a hopeful look in his eyes.

Sherlock sighed heavily.

‘It is not something I have tried yet.’

‘Is that a yes, then?’

‘Mh, yes, of course it is,’ Sherlock grumbled.

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, we’ve not started yet,’ John teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and disappeared into his bedroom to retrieve his violin case. He entered the living room again to find John absently massaging his shoulder as he waited for Sherlock to come back. He deposited the case on John’s chair.

‘Right. No time like the present, yeah?’ he chuckled. ‘Should I… Is there anything I have to do?’ he enquired, suddenly daunted as he looked at the non-threatening case.

‘Relax. Focus on the sensations. You might want to take your jumper off: avoid being hot and become unnecessary flustered over such a trifle.’

‘Right. Think I’m going to take your advice on that one,’ he replied swiftly taking his jumper off and adjusting his t-shirt.

‘There’s no need to feel self-conscious, John. You’re not trying to seduce anyone.’ John shuddered inwardly. ‘As far as I know, there aren’t any women in the vicinity,’ Sherlock concluded as John let relief wash over him. Embarrassed that he did not understand his reaction, John tried to diffuse his own tension and answered in a chuckle.

‘Save Mrs. Hudson, but she doesn’t quite float my boat.’

‘Mh. Glad we’ve got that out of the way. You’re going to do something much more interesting anyway.’ He looked up at John who stayed where he was without making any kind of movement. ‘Do go on, John, it won’t bite you.’

‘You mean…’

‘Yes. Do keep up, John. Now, if you wouldn’t mind…’ he gestured towards the still unopened case. John held out a shaky hand towards it, unclasped it and lifted the lid.

‘Do you always have to...?’ The question died on his lips as he decided not to be snarky. Sherlock was being nice, in his own way: why poke the bear? ‘Right. Nevermind.,’ he continued, taking the velvety protection off the instrument, revealing a polished, dark mahogany object. He stopped himself whistling his appreciation and, if anything, the moment had become more reverent for him. He slowly brought his shaking hand towards the instrument, ever so softly brushing his fingers against it.

‘Yes, a moment of paramount importance,’ Sherlock commented, his derisive tone hiding his pleased approval.

‘You have no idea,’ John retorted in a whisper. _It’s you I’m touching there, after all._

‘Be that as it may. Take it in hand, John and please be quick about it. You’ll contemplate it to your heart’s content at your leisure – once we’re done.’

‘Thanks,’ John replied sounding a little disbelieving as he grabbed the violin at the top of its neck, right under the peg box.

‘Hm. You want to hold it between the base and the middle of the neck. You don’t want to disturb the pegs.’

‘Better?’

‘Yes. Now, place it against your shoulder. Lift it up a bit, keep your neck straight and turn your head slightly to the left so your chin can rest on it and hold it. Hold yourself straighter but relax your shoulders. You have to trust it so it can trust you. And trust yourself, obviously.’

‘It’s… harder than I expected. Looks so much easier when you carry and play it.’

‘Practise, John. I, too, had to learn.’

‘So you haven’t always been…’

‘Been… what?’

‘Nevermind. Any advice to… well, get used to it?’ John blurted out quickly, steering away from what he supposed could lead to a _very_ slippery slope.

‘Walk with it. Make a habit of having it on you until it becomes part of you.’

‘Well that’s… helpful.’

‘Indeed. Next we’re going to work on the strings. Pluck them,’ he encouraged. ‘You shan’t be afraid of the violin, John, if you’re to play it.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not…’

‘Pluck the strings, don’t be afraid to make noises.’

John groaned.

‘Not _those_ kinds of noises,’ Sherlock chuckled. ‘Good. Now put the violin down. Let’s focus on the bow and how to properly hold it. Don’t be surprised, you’re not going to play anything with more than four notes just yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it requires several steps to be accomplished and mastered – including a fine fingering technique,’ he replied seriously while John dissolved in giggles. ‘What did I say?’

‘Oh come on… Sherlock… F…Finger…’ he replied bending over with uncontrollable laughter.

‘Quite. You are _not_ ready to do anything with the strings if you can’t even keep yourself together when I’m mentioning what precisely you’ll need to work on.’

‘So… you mean…’ John began, trying to contain his laughter. ‘I have to practise a f…fingering technique?’ he asked before losing the thin amount of control he had.

‘For the love of…! Yes. First I’d suggest you’d stop laughing like a teenager over this. It is a _serious_ matter, John,’ he intoned, gravity in his voice. John sobered up instantly – although a glimmer of mischief still shone in his eyes.

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

‘You’ll… teach me, though. Right?’

‘Do you mean to ask whether I’ll _show_ you an example of _my_ fingering technique?’

‘Yes. Will you?’

‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Mastering this will lead you to much more impressive and important objectives, after all. Simply keep in mind that _everything _is essential and builds up to what will surely become a well-accomplished endeavour.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind. And try to keep up,’ John promised.

‘You _will_ keep up,’ countered Sherlock, his tone authoritative.

‘And there’s the Sherlock I know,’ he commented. ‘So, the bow?’

‘Use your right hand. I know you’re left-handed but that doesn’t mean you can’t be ambidextrous. Oh, don’t look at me like that, of course you are,’ Sherlock shrugged. ‘Besides, most of the finer work will be done by the fingers of your dominant hand,’ he continued as John tried to keep a straight face.

‘No lady has ever complained about them,’ he giggled. Sherlock merely raised a brow.

‘You’ll want to hold it delicately. Your hand is merely resting on it as it really is held by the strings. Playing the violin is a delicate balance of paradoxes – you have to be firm but gentle, relaxed but focussed. Tender and determined.’

‘Are you _really _talking about playing an instrument there?’

‘Hm?’

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re giving advice to… nevermind,’ he took the bow in hand and tried to hold it as Sherlock had just told him.

‘No, you’re _grasping_ the bow. Holding on it with tension. Relax your fingers. Relax your wrist,’ he placed his own delicate fingers on John’s skin. ‘There, that’s better,’ he praised. ‘Now try playing a note,’ he encouraged. ‘Add a little more pressure,’ he advised and John moved the bow on a string as he’d been asked to. ‘Don’t be afraid to make large gestures. Embrace the violin. Embrace the sounds it’s making. The sounds _you_’re making it produce.’ John smirked. Sherlock frowned. ‘Don’t let yourself be distracted and focus on what you’re doing,’ he reproached, irritated, before sitting in his chair. John stopped, confused.

‘Why…?’

‘I need to watch how you move, and you need to practice,’ Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, crossing his legs and steepling his hands beneath his chin, his acute stare taking in every detail of John’s posture and his every move.

‘Right. I’m feeling judged. Nothing unusual about that with you,’ he grumbled, pursuing his discovery of the instrument.

After a time, Sherlock sprang to his feet, redid the buttons of his jacket and walked past John to take his coat. Unsurprisingly, John immediately followed him.

‘What are you doing?’ he queried as Sherlock put his coat on.

‘We need to go out. That was… atrocious.’

‘Thanks for not sparing my feelings at all.’

‘No one is ever good on their first time,’ he declared, as if it made his comment better. ‘Now come along, John. We need to get you one,’ he continued, giving him his coat.

As they stepped onto the pavement in front of their flat, Sherlock held up his hand to hail a passing cab. He really had an uncanny ability to summon cabs even when not in a busy street.

‘Florian Leonhard Fine Violins, please,’ he said as he took his seat. John threw him a judging, expectant look.  
  
‘Address,’ he whispered causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

‘He perfectly knows the address,’ Sherlock muttered under his breath before adding, under John’s penetrating glare, ‘3 Frognal Lane.’ 

They sat in silence for a minute, before John started speaking again.  
  
‘Sherlock? _Fine_ violins, isn’t that… A bit much?’

‘Can’t have you learning on a subpar instrument,’ he shrugged.

‘I suppose… But figure I don’t like it in the end?’

‘I don’t see why you wouldn’t.’

‘Right. Where is that store, anyway?’

‘Hampstead.’

‘Hampstead?!’

‘Problem?’

‘It’s just… Well. Posh area.’

Sherlock turned his eyes on him.

‘Your point being?’

‘Nevermind,’ he sighed. ‘Though of course you wouldn’t look out of place there. You didn’t at Buckingham bloody Palace, after all.’

‘Please,’ Sherlock scoffed.

‘What?’

‘Stop being so self-conscious. You’re perfectly suited to go to any “posh locations” you want.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You heard me perfectly, I’m not saying it again.’

‘And yet, you need to elaborate on that.’

In true form, Sherlock did not say a word for the rest of the trip, electing to look out of the window while he probably was in his mind palace reviewing something or other.

‘Now don’t fret,’ Sherlock broke the silence in a reassuring voice as they approached their destination. ‘Let me talk, this’ll make the transaction quicker, more efficient.’

‘When  _ don’t _ I?’ he grumbled.

‘Precisely,’ he smiled as the cabbie pulled at the kerb and exited the car as soon as the brakes were pulled, leaving John to pay, as usual. John had stopped complaining about that long ago – but it still irked him. Today, though, he had even more reason  _ not  _ to voice his complaints for Sherlock appeared to be in a good mood; John felt proud of the idea he’d had, even if he wondered how long it would last and  _ where the hell was that shop? _

He looked around but nothing caught his eye as the forefront of a shop. Sherlock was looking at him with a fond, discreet smile.

‘After you, John. After all, it’s you who needs a violin.’

‘Where…?’

‘As ever, John, you see but do not observe,’ he replied, placing his hand on the golden handle.

‘It’s…’

‘Yes.’

‘I really wouldn’t…’

‘No, not unless you were looking for it,’ he declared pushing the gate, after he’d announced himself on the intercom.

The inside of the store was the confirmation of the outside: this was not a store and it was certainly not thought out for everyday people in mind. It was set in a house with a stylish and refined decoration, high ceilings and large rooms, unencumbered by useless furniture. A selection of cellos, violins and violas were exhibited, some of them stored in a glass case others on a stand. A man younger than John came to them, welcoming and enquiring for the exact reason for their visit.

‘We are looking for a violin to replace one that was sadly lost in a flooding.’

‘Certainly. What would be sir’s budget, if I may ask?’

‘I, er, I don’t…’ John stammered.

‘Whatever price is required for a violin of high quality in your showroom,’ Sherlock quickly answered with an unconcerned air.  _ He is definitely not out of place in this posh building, _ John reflected.  _ I’m surprised the guy didn’t recognise him _ .

‘Sherlock…’ John began, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of spending an outrageous amount of money on this violin. Sherlock obviously didn’t have qualms in doing so, but unlike him, John was the sort of person who favoured using his money wisely. His wealth was decidedly less important than Sherlock’s but the man seemed to dismiss this fact or never consider its importance.

The man looked more closely at Sherlock and his eyes widened in recognition but he did not comment on his customer’s identity.

‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘if you were to tell me what violin you had, you might be able to find one of the same quality.’

‘It was a vintage German one, made in the 19 th century. In the 1880s, if memory serves.’

‘An exceedingly good quality, sir. I believe we have one close to what you are used to. Follow me, if you don’t mind.’

‘Excellent. Come along, John.’


	2. Chapter 2

‘£4,000 for a violin!’ John exclaimed as they stepped back into the 221b foyer and closed the door behind themselves.  
  
‘_That_’s why you looked so angry,’ Sherlock remarked as he finally understood the reason for John’s irate mood.  
  
‘About a bloody thousand pounds for the bow and the accessories…!’  
  
‘Calm down, John, you’re going to have an apoplexy,’ he commented as he ascended the stairs, John following behind him at a much slower pace, the violin case seemingly heavy in his hand rendering his progress slower and more cautious.  
_Stairs are a dangerous invention. Stairs and a psychosomatically lame leg are not a good combination. Of course he’d find a way to cure it… and be the one to bring it back. Who in their right mind wouldn’t stress over spending that much money?_  
Sherlock waited for John on the threshold of their flat, watching him grumble during his careful ascension.  
  
When John finally arrived at the top of the stairs, Sherlock informed him that it might be a good idea to wait before going back to the lesson.  
  
‘You are much too tense, John. There is a large amount of patience required for learning an instrument.’  
  
‘After spending that much, _you_ should be screaming bloody murder! And yet, you’re as cool as a cucumber!’  
  
‘It’s of no consequence. Besides, you are the one who paid for it…’  
  
‘Don’t you dare take me for an idiot! I _know _where the money came from,’ he grumbled. ‘How can you be so calm?’  
  
‘You should know that by now…’  
  
‘Oh, yes, I do… Thank you,’ he added sotto voce. ‘Well, can you show me how you care for your violin? Something as precious as that must –‘

‘Yes. Daily. You must be very attentive and delicate in your care of it,’ he commented as he went to retrieve his own instrument, proud that John had come up with the idea himself.

‘Ta. Couldn’t let them know I hadn’t the first clue about anything violin-related, now could I?’ he called after Sherlock, an appreciative smile on his lips as his friend bent his torso to haul his violin case.

‘The rosin will make your violin shine, even if its primary use is to make the bow hairs adhere to the string,’ he started, unaware of John’s attention fixed on his hands and his long, strong fingers.  
‘You should rosin your bow every week. The way the vendor did it works just fine, but I happen to think that more reverence should be put into this. It’s a ritual to take care of a part of yourself, after all.’

‘Show me? Next time,’ John amended after Sherlock threw him a look.  
  
‘I doubt you aren’t able to find your own reverent way,’ he declined.  
  
_It must be something deeply intimate. Somehow I don’t think the way I’ve seen him do it comes even close to what he really does when no one is looking. _  
  
‘What about the strings? What if they snap?’ John asked, suddenly worried.  
  
‘They shouldn’t snap unless you put too much tension on them,’ Sherlock dismissed. ‘Regardless. you should change them every year as you’ve just started to learn. You’d think the strings are the only ones that need maintenance; but the bow hairs as well. There’s no reason to trouble ourselves with that just yet, you’ve still about two years before you need to start thinking about it,’ he replied.

‘You take much better care of your instrument than of yourself,’ John remarked when Sherlock took a soft cloth to his violin’s body. ‘You should apply –‘  
  
‘I’ve told you repeatedly, everything else is transport,’ he retorted curtly before standing up.  
  
‘Fine, I won’t argue,’ John said in a placating voice while massaging his left shoulder and neck muscles.

‘You need a proper massage. You cannot get rid of all the tension on your own,’ he commented. John choke.

‘Sherlock. Two things.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you just make an innuendo?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’  
  
‘Good. Good,’ he cleared his throat. ‘Were you offering to help out…?’ he asked after a moment.

‘I know that it sounds difficult to believe that such a proposition came from me, but since there is no masseuse nearby and that I know how best to relax to play, the logical conclusion was to offer help,’ he retorted aggravation hiding the hurt over John’s unsaid remark.

‘No, no. I didn’t mean… I simply wanted to make sure I had understood you right.’

‘Yes, you had.’

‘Yes. So. Er, how…?’

‘Best if you’re lying down. Least amount of tension.’ He gestured to the sofa.

‘Right. Yeah. Er, clothes?’

Sherlock wondered at John’s visibly uncomfortable expression.  
‘Obviously keeping a shirt on would hamper on the efficacy of –‘ _Use less words, Holmes. His brain is starting to contemplate entering a fight or flight response. Less words. We don’t want him in a panic state, do we?_ ‘Take the jumper and shirt off. You can keep your vest on,’ he clarified when a look of profound embarrassment etched itself on John’s face. Relief visibly washed over John and he let out a breath – before inhaling once more, squaring his shoulders as he took his shirt off.

‘Breathe,’ Sherlock encouraged him. ‘I’m not looking,’ he reassured him. ‘I’m going to warm my hands and get some oil.’

In the next following days, John wrestled with the memory of Sherlock’s hands on his back and arms. For an unknown reason, his temperature went up albeit not in an alarming manner and an awkward feeling came up in his lower stomach, in the vicinity of his groin. He was familiar with these sensations but had never experienced them with regards to Sherlock – he never felt them as awkward given the situations he was in. Now, however…  
From time to time he had contemplated Sherlock’s aesthetic sight from a purely objective point of view.  
He had entertained the thought of touching him as one might want to touch the face of God but the thought of being any kind of physical with Sherlock had not crept in his mind, aside from the patching-Sherlock-up-after-a-rough-chase-and-confrontation-with-a-suspect-in-a-criminal-investigation kind of physical touch, obviously; although he never contemplated that with relish: Sherlock _would_ have to be physically hurt.

John was having his morning tea and reading the newspaper when Sherlock called from the living room.  
‘John! Go against the wall! Please,’ he amended a few seconds later.  
John stopped drinking, the mug halfway to his lips.  
  
‘Sherlock?’ he asked, taken aback. It wasn’t uncommon for Sherlock to say anything that crossed his mind, more often inappropriate than not. This time not only was it inappropriate but he himself had been thinking of…  
_Great minds and all that. _

‘Well?’ Sherlock asked again, passing his head through the kitchen door. ‘We need to work on your tensed posture. While playing the violin,’ he added as John’s brain was clearly processing his request.  
‘John!’ he exclaimed as John still had not replied.

‘Yeah? Sorry, didn’t… hear that last bit.’

‘You’re too tense when playing and your posture is still incorrect.’

‘You spent time thinking about that?’

‘I spent time thinking about how to ameliorate the latter. You know what needs to be done for the former.’

‘Yeah, I remember,’ John replied thoughtfully. ‘I guess a hot bath is the best way to relax at the moment,’ he added, indicating the window through which heavy rain could be seen pouring. ‘For some reason, I don’t want to go out in search of a masseuse.’

‘You’re always more tense on cold rainy days,’ Sherlock reflected. ‘Make sure you are properly relaxed before actual playing. Then we’ll work against the wall.’

‘Right. I heard that one right, then. I’ll have my breakfast first, if you don’t mind. Actually, even if you do,’ he added. Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt and a heavy sigh.

‘Fine. But hurry!’

John smirked.  


Towelling his hair in an unconcerned way, John came back to the sitting room in his usual loose-fitted jumper and a pair of old jeans. He had taken quite some time in the bathroom as he always did whenever he took a bath, much to Sherlock’s displeasure.  
John figured that was because he’d had less time to do his hair since he seemed to spend an awfully long time on it, while in actuality Sherlock was deprived of the opportunity to observe John and the ever-puzzling enigma he was to the genius.  
He still looked somewhat tense but the hot water had visibly done him good.  
Sherlock caught sight of the direction of John’s look which he obviously wanted as surreptitious as possible. John’s watching him was a common occurrence although his appraisal of Sherlock seemed to have shifted to a less aesthetics-oriented category to a more… sexually-interested one.  
  
_Oh. That’s why he’s tense. I wonder what brought him to change his seemingly unmoveable heterosexual stance._

‘Good, you’re back. Take your violin and stand against the wall,’ he requested without preamble.

‘Give me a minute, Sherlock,’ he replied before walking upstairs to take his instrument and reappearing a few minutes later.  
‘Right. Care to explain what this is about, then?’  
  
‘As I said earlier, John,’ Sherlock replied with a long-suffering sigh, ‘you have to be aware of how your body naturally settles so you can correctly amend it to suit your playing posture.’

‘Why a wall, though? I could just… stand, couldn’t I?’

‘If you want to be technical about it, of course you could “just stand”. Whether it would be of any utility to this particular endeavour remains to be seen, however.’

‘Fine, forget I asked.’  
  
‘You could stand against a pillar or a door, of course, but the former would require us to leave the flat and as you have pointed out the weather is decidedly not encouraging us or anyone else to abandon the warmth of their home, and the latter would require us to close the door and risk Mrs. Hudson breaking something as she tries to open it.’

‘God knows she doesn’t care for announcing herself,’ John chuckled. ‘Thing is. Where? There’s nowhere to do that anywhere,’ he commented with trepidation.

‘My bedroom is the best place, really. Or yours, if you’d prefer it,’ Sherlock replied without missing a beat, not thinking much about the words leaving his mouth. John clearly did and swallowed heavily. He nodded, steadying himself. _Come on, Watson, you’re not going to your death._  
He took his violin out of its case and took the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom, his shoulders squared and his back erect.  
Sherlock followed him instants later, after he knew John had somewhat settled and hopefully left some tension behind.

‘Most parts of your back must touch the wall. The shoulders. The spine. The hips. The heels, too. You’ll notice there’s a bit of a curve at the lower back. Now move the feet a bit forward and open. That’ll help reduce the curve. We want a straight back but not one that’s tense.’

‘I feel ridiculous.’

‘Breathe. Rather than feeling self-conscious, feel your body. Without touching it, obviously.’

‘I still feel…’

‘Be aware of yourself and your surroundings.’

‘Oh, believe me, I am.’

‘What can you say about your arms?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You said you were aware of yourself.’

‘I…’

‘They should be supple. Stay here, I’ll retrieve your bow. In the meantime, position your violin the way I taught you.’

John tried his best to be aware of his body, of the suppleness in his arms and ignore the tension he knew was mounting thanks to his treacherous heart and other parts of his body.  
_Sherlock doesn’t feel things that way and you’re not gay, Watson. Forget that attraction, it’s not you. It’s a matter of circumstances, at best. Now breathe, take your instrument and forget this silly idea.  
_Sherlock reappeared an instant later, bow in hand, to find that John had got his violin on his shoulder and was plucking the string. He smiled.

‘I can’t…’

‘No. You will have to remember the posture you’ve discovered and do what you asked for earlier: just stand. Go on,’ Sherlock told him encouragingly.

‘What, stand?’ As Sherlock nodded slightly, he continued, ‘Can we go back to the living room, then?’

‘Are you really confident that you will not forget the posture you’ve discovered just now?’

‘Hm, no,’ John conceded.

‘As you were. You’ve mostly understood the basics of the bow strokes, I think it is time for you to learn a small, simple piece. Twinkle –‘

‘I’d rather not. Something more…grown-up, if it’s possible?’

‘Fine. I know you’d prefer something Queen and Country, but it’s a tad too difficult for now when it comes to the rhythms. Ode to Joy it is, then.’

‘This will work just fine. Thanks.’

After discovering the piece together, Sherlock informed John that they would work on the first two phrases for a start, thus making the next two easier.

‘Open strings, we’ll work on the rhythm,’ he declared as he sat down on the edge of his bed. I’m going to click the tempo,’ he answered before John could ask and started beating the time, clicking his fingers up and down, from torso to crotch.  
‘Breathe deeply, John,’ he reminded him when John clearly was too tense and holding his breath.

‘I’d like to see you do it,’ he grumbled.

‘Simply focus.’ Sherlock sighed. ‘Remember that any distraction is temporary. Imagine that there’s only you. Nothing else but you matters.’

_You do_, _Sherlock._ He might as well have said that out loud because Sherlock gave him an intrigued look and a raised eyebrow.

‘Focus, John,’ he admonished. ‘Silence your thoughts.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took longer than expected because Real Life™ got in the way. There should only be one, maybe two more chapters of about the same length as these two, so roughly 2k.  
Stay tuned, the next (and final?) chapter should be there soon =)  
Thanks for sticking with me.


	3. Chapter 3

John would practise every day so as not to disappoint Sherlock, whose levels of boredom and restlessness had abated. They were still present although much less so. John’s idea of having his flatmate engage his massive brain to dispel the clouds of negative energy surrounding him was proving extremely effective.   
It had, however, shed light on feelings which John would have much preferred stay hidden. Irene Adler had heavily hinted – no, she had  _ affirmed _ – that there was something deeper than mere friendship between the two of them, and he had tried his best to bury it only to have it all resurface with Sherlock teaching him the violin. Worse, even: c _ onfirmed _ , at least on his side. Sherlock had told him he was a terrible liar, which meant he was aware of his feelings. Why hadn’t he tossed him out?

_ It’s just transport _ , he could hear Sherlock say.

If that was the way Sherlock felt about the basic needs that were sleeping, eating and social interactions, there was no wonder why he’d want to postpone these as much as possible or get rid of them completely, through whatever means necessary.

John was disappointed in his learning, he knew he was too tense to do anything worthwhile and grew irritated.

‘‘I’ll make you squirm if you get angry and impatient,’ came Sherlock’s voice from behind him.

‘Sherlock! What am I doing wrong here? I can’t focus. I can’t bloody progress!’ he shouted.

‘What calms you down? Think about that. And try breathing exercises. I suppose Ella’s given you some?’

John sniffed angrily, ashamed to be reminded of his need to see a therapist and of his dark memories. And his family. And… basically everything in his life before Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

‘Stop thinking. That won’t help you.’

‘Says the guy who thinks about everything except his transport!’ John shouted again before blanching.

‘Oh.’

John stayed silent, eyes downcast, waiting for Sherlock’s soft but firm rebuttal and letting down as he’d done on their first meeting. No words were forthcoming from either of them.

Sherlock was looking at John who was looking at the floor, clutching his bow as an anchor.

‘John…’ he started.

‘I’ll just get packing, then,’ he said, cutting Sherlock off before he had a chance to, to John’s mind, reject him once again. No matter how nicely done, a rejection was still a rejection.

‘I told you… doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.’

John stopped, his clutch on the bow a bit looser. He remembered the cold night air surrounding them and the smells of the homeless’ dens as they were following a lead from Sherlock’s Homeless network.  
‘You were talking about the stars,’ he reminded him.

‘Was I?’

They met each other’s eyes. Sherlock hadn’t been about to reject him. 

‘Oh.’

John cleared his throat and looked away, searching for some courage to talk about feelings.

‘So, you mean… You…’

He clearly had not found a lot and Sherlock was staying quiet, picking up objects and fiddling with them.

‘Maybe…’ he answered after some time, his voice small and his tone apprehensive.

John’s shoes had developed a highly interesting feature that he could not take his eyes off. Had he understood Sherlock correctly? He was rather certain that he had. But that  _ Sherlock-everything-else-is-transport Holmes _ should consider… well, indulging his transport, as it were, was short of impossible. That he would consider it with him and that his… interest and feelings were reciprocated was a miracle.   
  
Sherlock could almost hear John’s disbelieving train of thought. John-Not-Gay Watson was still an enigma to him, and probably to himself as well.   
That his interest in John had developed much further than the mere interesting distraction he had initially thought him out to be had been an unexpected twist of fate. A rather sudden one, yes, but he had learnt from everyone else’s mistake and decided to let their companionship grow before allowing himself to let his guard down and feel.

‘So. Pointers?’ John asked, bringing his violin up. Since neither of them knew how to address the subject of feelings, to John’s mind, the best thing to do was to keep calm and carry on. He knew Sherlock would not be able to broach the subject at all, and that he’d probably need to consider it from every angle before talking about it. Not to mention the fact that he himself would probably need to get plastered to think about it. Alcohol did dull the senses, but he felt that it helped make everything clearer. Simpler.

Sherlock looked at him for a second and nodded, accepting with relief the postponing of this talk. He wanted to have it all be dealt with, but he understood that John had some thinking to do; he would have to, as well. In true John Watson’s form, he had found a way to let the conversation go and a much safer topic on which to interact: namely the one which had, presumably, brought John to consider his interest in a potential partner to be of a larger panel than the one he vocally claimed.

He came to the music stand to have a look at what John was struggling with.

‘Show me,’ he demanded after quickly reading the sheet. Months had passed since the first time he’d first instructed John on how to play, and being a serious student, he had made serious progress (he had told Sherlock in the early beginning of their sessions that he was confident in his fingers’… strength) and was against all odds already working on pieces, albeit short ones. The one he was struggling with was Bach’s March in D Major: even if he knew what the rhythms meant by now, he was still finding it difficult to actually  _ play _ them on the instrument.

‘Show me,’ Sherlock repeated, sitting in his chair and gesturing for John to come closer to the music stand.

John grunted as he complied. He didn’t relish the prospect of playing and being criticised at this exact moment, but it was for the best. Not to mention that this particular piece was getting on his nerves. Sherlock was not the only one with high expectations.   
He placed the violin on his shoulder and started playing but stopped immediately.

‘Forgot to breathe. Sorry,’ he chuckled nervously, flexing his fingers.

Sherlock waited patiently for the slight tremor in John’s left hand to subside. He really was not good at dealing with… feelings. Neither of them was. Hopefully, music could help them in this endeavour.   
John breathed, deeply this time, and started playing, a bit more awkwardly than when on his own.   
Sherlock listened and observed: John’s posture was still tense, his mind was obviously not entirely on the music and what he was doing, constantly second-guessing himself.

‘Trust yourself, John. You can do it. You  _ are _ doing it. And so you  ** _will_ ** ,’ Sherlock declared with finality. John nodded and started again as Sherlock stood up, clicking the tempo with his fingers, and circling around him. When Sherlock noticed he had slipped into his old tutor’s habits and that it upset John for whatever reason, he went back to his chair and continued clicking the tempo, his legs opened wide. How else was he supposed to give John enough of a visual in case the sound of his clicking didn’t hold his attention as much as the movement of his arm and fingers?

John could not help but notice Sherlock’s movements and position, making it that much harder to concentrate on his playing. He knew Sherlock was not being suggestive on purpose – if he’d learnt one thing of the man throughout these 14 months sharing a flat, it was that Sherlock was either oblivious or unconcerned with anything remotely sexual; the mere thought of him being voluntarily suggestive was unthinkable. Especially at a time like this.

_ Not good? _ came a voice in his head. Then again, that last thought of his was moot: Sherlock had always had a very poor consideration of  _ when _ things could be deemed appropriate and his sense of timing was mostly non-existent.

The tempo Sherlock was giving him had increased and he was encouraged to use his bow faster and faster: rhythm was far much easier and far less prone to being riddled with mistakes at a faster tempo. John, however, was still finding himself having trouble with the bow direction and the weight he applied on it, making his play awkward and slower than it should be.

‘Don’t stop, John. We’re getting there. It’s all in the forearm and the wrist. Don’t stop,’ he encouraged.

_ Does he know how these words could be interpreted?! _

‘Your wrist should be much more engaged. Lighter. More supple, like so,’ he said brushing John’s fingers as he took his bow to demonstrate what he meant exactly by ‘more engaged’.

‘Try to think of the notes in that rhythm as being… like a series of atoms. They are independent from each other but must assemble to create chemical bonds and molecules. What you are playing is a body of molecules: they are independent but work together to form beauty. You could also think of the notes of that rhythm as the cells in the body.’

‘Sherlock Holmes, the poet,’ John commented cheekily.

‘I can discern when you’re being sarcastic,’ Sherlock retorted. ‘Try again,’ he added, giving John his bow back.

‘Thank you,’ John replied in an uncharacteristically soft tone. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he added, returning to his playing and Sherlock to the  lab kitchen.

After practising for a long time, John came to the realisation that he had made something good, and much later he admitted to himself that he had needed Sherlock to do so.

He had needed Sherlock all along. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been brought to my attention that the ending might be a tad... abrupt, and I'll try to work on it.
> 
> As always, please leave kudos if you've enjoyed the story as a whole, and don't hesitate to comment your thoughts.


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